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Why, then, did his clasp make her tremble so? Make her thoughts tilt drunkenly in her mind? She had to get away from him, to regroup.
She pressed back tight against the wall, but he followed, his hair trailing like silk over her throat, her bare décolletage above the velvet bodice. “I have esteem for any worthy enemy.”
“Am I a worthy enemy?”
“You have defeated me twice now, which no one else has ever done. You are obviously strong and clever, monsieur. Yet you will not defeat me three times.”
His smile widened. “I see I shall have to watch my back while I am in England.” “At every moment.”
“I shall consider myself fairly warned, mademoiselle.”
They stood in silence for a long moment, studying each other warily. Marguerite glanced away first, her gaze shifting over his shoulder to the stone faun, who seemed to laugh at her predicament.
“What are you doing here?” she asked tightly. “Do you work for the Spanish now? Was your task in Venice complete?”
He laughed, a low, rough sound that seemed to echo through her very core. “Mademoiselle, you must know I work for no one but myself. As do you. And as for what I am doing here at Greenwich—well, I must keep some secrets, yes?”
Secrets. That was all life was. Yet Marguerite had spent her own life keeping her own secrets, and discovering those of other people. Even ones they thought so well hidden. She would find his, too.
He seemed to have read her very thoughts, for he leaned closer, so close his breath stirred the fine, loose curls at her temple, and his lips softly brushed her cheek. “Some things, petite, are buried so deeply even you cannot dig them out again.”
“Secrets are my speciality,” she whispered back. “I have not met a man yet who could withhold them from me. One way or another, I always fulfil my task.”
“Ah, but I am not as other men, Mademoiselle Dumas.” He pressed one light, fleeting kiss to her jaw, so swift she was not even sure it happened. “I shall look forward with great anticipation to our next battle. Do svidaniya.”
Then he let her go, his hands and body sliding away from her as one long caress. He melted away, vanishing into the night as if he had never been there at all. Except for the spot of fire that marked his kiss.
Marguerite spun around, but she could find no glimpse of him, no trace of his bright hair or red silk doublet. She was completely alone in the cold garden.
“Abruti,” she muttered. Her whole body felt boneless, exhausted. She longed to fall to the walkway in a heap, to sob out her frustration, to beat her fists against the jagged gravel until they bled!
But there was no time to give into such childish, useless tantrums. Womanish tears would never gain her the revenge she sought, would never achieve her goals for her. So, she scooped up her dagger where it had fallen and hurried back toward the palace, running up the stairs to her quiet little room.
Soon, very soon, a new day would dawn. A new chance to at last best the Russian and get back her emerald dagger.
This time, she would not fail.
Nicolai closed the door to his small chamber, sliding a heavy clothes chest in front of it. He was wary enough to take the Emerald Lily at her word. She would be coming sooner or later for her dagger. At least this way she would have to make a great deal of noise forcing the door open. Unless she could somehow transform herself into a column of mist and come down the chimney, which would not surprise him in the least.
She was not like any woman he had ever met, this French fairy-sprite. She looked so very delicate, so angelic, and yet she was a veritable hellcat. A powerful, shrieking vodyanoi, a sea witch, just like the terrifying tales his nurse told him when he was child.
Perhaps her claws only came out in the moonlight, though, for at the banquet she was all smiles and light charm, even with the dour young priest who sat beside her. None of the men in the vast hall could turn his eyes from her, and that included him, though he carefully did not let her see that. He pretended not to notice her at all, to let her think herself safe, yet in truth he had seen her as soon as she walked in at the end of the French procession.
How could he help it? It was as if she was surrounded by a silvery pool of light. His Emerald Lily. The woman who incited his lusts and then tried to murder him.
He knew she would come for him. She was rumoured to be ruthless to the enemies of France. Such as what had happened to a certain Monsieur Etampes, who dared attempt to be a double agent for Spain! A grotesque end indeed. And Nicolai had slighted her by daring to live.
But over the long months since Venice, he had forgotten how very potent her presence was. Her exotic perfume, the cold light in her eyes—they were like a strong wine, lulling and lovely. He would have to be more cautious in the future, and find a way to fight her from a safe distance. Or he would end up like poor Etampes, or Signor Farcinelli in Milan. Another bad end.
Nicolai laughed, suddenly exhilarated. He was always buoyed by a good fight, and the Emerald Lily—or Marguerite Dumas, as he had learned she was called—certainly gave as good as she got. Despite her small size, it took a great deal of strength for him to hold her still, to keep her from kicking and clawing. It also took all his strength to ignore the feel of her in his arms, the press of her soft body against his.
He unfastened his doublet, and tossed it along with his shirt over the narrow bed, letting the cold breeze from the open window wash over his face, his naked chest. The sun was just peeking over the horizon, a thin line of pinkish-gold light that promised bright hours ahead.
He would have to write Marc and thank him for sending him on this fool’s errand. This English meeting seemed suddenly full of colour and interest. Surely anything at all could happen in the days ahead.
Chapter Six
Marguerite bent her head over her embroidery, pretending to be absorbed by the tiny flowers in blue-and-yellow silk as she listened to the soft murmur of voices around her. Queen Katherine had invited Claudine and her ladies to sit with her in her privy chamber for the afternoon, while her husband and the other men were occupied with their “dull” business in the council chamber.
In truth, Marguerite was sure that far more of interest was happening here than in the king’s group. The men, with their bluff deceptions, their great egos that convinced them of their imminent victory, could learn a great deal about prevarication from their ladies, whose gentle smiles and soft, flattering words were veritable poniards.
Queen Katherine sat by the fire in her carved, cushioned chair, stitching on one of the king’s fine batiste shirts. She had sewn his shirts and embroidered the blackwork trim on them since the early days of their marriage, and she would never surrender the task now. At her feet, her pet monkey, clad in a tiny blue doublet, frolicked, while lovebirds chattered away in a cage by the windows. The animals’ high-pitched exclamations blended with the giggles of the ladies, their whispers and the crackle of the flames, the sound of a lute being played by the queen’s chief lady, Maria de Salinas.
Thus far the talk had all been of fashion, of household matters, of Claudine’s forthcoming baby and Princess Mary’s education. Little enough to glean there, but Marguerite was patient. She had to be.
She drew her needle through the fine, white cloth, embellishing a petal on a cornflower. One stitch, then another and another, and the scene would soon be whole. It was the same with listening. One seemingly insignificant detail built on another until the greater vision was apparent.
“That is quite lovely, Mademoiselle Dumas,” one of Queen Katherine’s younger ladies, Lady Penelope Percy, said. She held out her own work, a hopelessly crooked pattern of Tudor roses and diamond shapes. “It is meant to be a cushion cover, but I fear I lack the skill you possess. No one will ever want to sit on it!”
Marguerite laughed ruefully. “In truth, Lady Penelope, needlework is not a favourite pastime for me. I find it rather dull.”
“You do it so well, though.”
“In my position at Court, serving Princess Madeleine, there is little else to do all day. I had no choice but to become proficient. See, Lady Penelope, if you pull the thread thus, it keeps the tension in your needle and makes a neater stitch.”
“So it does! How very clever.” They sewed in silence for a moment, then Lady Penelope leaned closer to whisper, “Your normal place is not in the household of the comtesse, then?”
“No. She needed extra assistance to travel such a distance in her condition, and I was the most easily spared of the princess’s household. I confess I was glad of the opportunity to travel, to see England.”
“As I wish I could see Paris! Alas, I fear I will be here in the queen’s service until my father finds some whey-faced squire for me to marry. I shall never have much merriment in life at all,” Lady Percy said, her lower lip protruding in a distinct pout.
Ah-ha, Marguerite thought. A dissatisfied lady was always the best confidant of all, if she could persuade them to confide in her. Some were simply too jealous. But Lady Penelope Percy was quite pretty herself, and obviously lonely. “How very sad for you. Everyone should enjoy themselves when they are young, yes?”
“Exactly so! Time enough for dullness later, when one is as old and fat as…” Her voice trailed away, but she glanced at the stout, complacent queen.
“We all must dance while we can,” Marguerite said. “Yet I have seen few signs of dullness here at your English Court. The banquet last night was most delightful.”
“That is because we must entertain you French!” Lady Penelope said with a laugh. “When we are alone it is much quieter, aside from a bit of hunting and dancing.”
“No flirtations? In a Court so full of handsome gentlemen? Come now, Lady Penelope, I cannot believe it of a pretty young lady like yourself! You must have a favourite among all these charming courtiers.”
Lady Penelope giggled, ducking her head over her untidy sewing. “I think the most handsome men are among your own party, Mademoiselle Dumas. The comte de Calonne, for instance.”
The comte? Marguerite had scarcely noticed Claudine’s husband, but she supposed he was handsome. Certainly nowhere as attractive as Nicolai Ostrovsky…
Marguerite closed her eyes against the sudden lurch of her stomach that the thought of the Russian inspired. That sick, nervous, excited feeling she hated so much. She remembered last night, the hot feeling of his body pressed against hers in the dark, his breath, his kiss on her skin. The vivid aliveness of him.
Why did he haunt her so?
“You admire the comte, then?” she said, opening her eyes and going back to her embroidery. Her stitches were now distinctly less even.
Lady Penelope shrugged. “He has such fine, broad shoulders! I would wager he is a very good dancer. Yet his wife seems so sour.”
Marguerite glanced at Claudine, who did seem pale and out-of-sorts in her ill-chosen tawny silk gown. “Many women are out of humour when they are in such a condition.”
“Perhaps so.” Lady Penelope giggled, as carefree as only a girl who had never been pregnant could be. Or a lady who could not become pregnant, such as Marguerite herself. “But it leaves their husbands in such great need of consolation!”
Marguerite laughed. That was certainly all too true. In her experience, men needed “consolation” for too many things far too often. That did not mean she had to be their consoler.
“Who do you think the handsomest man is, Mademoiselle Dumas?” Lady Penelope asked.
“I fear I have not been here long enough to judge.”
“Well, just guess, then. From the ones you have met.”
Marguerite thought again of Nicolai, of his golden hair against that red doublet. He looked like a flame, one that threatened to consume her if she got too close. “Perhaps your own King Henry.”
Lady Penelope shook her head. “He still looks well enough, I suppose, for his years. But you would have to battle for him with Mistress Boleyn, and that I would not care to try. Her tongue is as sharp as her claws.”
“I have not yet had a glimpse of this famous Mistress Boleyn. She must be quite beautiful.”
“I would not say beautiful. Not like yourself, Mademoiselle Dumas! She is—interesting, rather. She was in France, you know, when the king’s sister was Queen of France, and is much more fashionable than the rest of us.”
“I wonder when I shall see her.”
“Tonight, no doubt. They say there is to be dancing after supper, and she never misses the chance to show off her dancing skills.” Lady Penelope lowered her voice even further to whisper, “She is meant to attend on the queen, but she is usually far too busy with her own pursuits.”
“Indeed?”
Lady Penelope nodded. One of the other ladies, a pale young woman named Jane Seymour, began to read aloud from The Romance of the Rose, and everyone else fell silent. There was no chance for Marguerite to ask Lady Penelope what those “other pursuits” might be, yet she was sure she could guess. Most interesting.
She also ruminated on the comment about how Mistress Boleyn had been in France and was thus “fashionable.” Had not the Russian himself said she, Marguerite, lacked the famed French charm? It was hard to be charming in a knife fight, but she knew she had charm a-plenty when she needed it. Maybe it was time to employ it…
Nicolai reached up to test the tensile strength of the tightrope, to make sure it was taut and firmly anchored. From outside his small, hidden nook in the theatre, he could hear Sir Henry Guildford directing his assistants. Their voices, the sounds of hammering and sawing, seemed far away, as if he hid in a cave where the real world could not touch him.
If only there was such a place, a single, hidden spot of peace. Yet if there was, he had never found it in all his travels. Everywhere—Moscow, Venice, England, Holland, Spain—people were the same. Noisy and striving, beautiful and cruel, strutting about in all their vanity and longing until everything was extinguished in only a moment.
Only in friendship had he found a true haven, a reminder of grace and kindness that could be found, if one searched hard enough. Cherished it when it was discovered, like rubies and gold. Nicolai had lost his family so long ago, had wandered the world alone until he discovered a new family—Marc and Julietta, Marc’s long-lost brother Balthazar, Nicolai’s own acting troupe.
Only these bonds, so precious and fragile, could have brought him to this nest of French, Spanish and English vipers, all spitting and hissing. Yet, now that he was here, he felt some of the old excitement coming back to him. The soaring exhilaration only danger could create.
He felt restless today, filled with a crackling energy. A good fight would take that edge off, yet thus far at Greenwich everyone was behaving with disappointing civility. Except for Marguerite Dumas, of course, but she was nowhere to be seen. Probably she was safely ensconced with the other French ladies in Queen Katherine’s chamber, where she could hopefully cause very little trouble.
And she was part of this restlessness, if not its entire cause.
So, that left acrobatic tricks. Nicolai shed his fine velvet doublet, his Spanish leather boots, and, clad only in shirt and hose, swung himself up on to the rope. He balanced there on his bare feet, tall and straight, carefully centred, and took a few steps.
He was stiff from the long, idle days aboard ship and on horseback, out of shape after too much rich food and fine wine. It was fortunate the Emerald Lily was not able to overpower him last night, when he was foolish enough to ambush her in his poor condition!
But as he traversed the length of the rope, balancing on one foot and then the other, he felt his muscles warm, felt them grow pliant and supple again. His mind, too, was centred, leaving England and Marguerite Dumas and Marc’s mother behind, until there was only his body and the thin rope.
Nicolai tucked and rolled into a forward somersault, springing up to do a backflip. One, two, then he was still again, his arms outstretched.
A flurry of applause burst the shimmering, delicate bubble of his concentration. He glanced up to find Marguerite standing in the curtained doorway, clapping her jewelled hands.
He would have expected to see sarcasm written on her face as she watched him, cold calculation. Yet there was none of that. Her cheeks glowed pink, and her eyes were bright, clear of their usual opaque green ice. Her lips parted in a delighted smile.
How very young she looked in that moment, young and free and alive. If he had thought her beautiful before, he saw now he never knew what real beauty was.
“Oh, Monsieur Ostrovsky, how very extraordinary that was,” she exclaimed. “How can a human being perform such feats?”
Nicolai swung down from the rope, landing lightly on his feet. He stayed a wary distance from her, not trusting that she did not conceal a blade up her fine brown velvet sleeve. Not trusting himself to be near her, to step into the circle of that silvery glow she seemed to carry everywhere.
“‘Tis merely practice, mademoiselle,” he answered. “Many years of it.”
“You must have a great gift,” she said. “Anyone else would have cracked their skulls open!”
“And so I did, a dozen times.”
“Yet you lived to tell about it.”
“I have a very hard skull.”
“And so you do. Thick-headed, indeed.” She stepped closer to the rope, reaching up tentatively to test its strength. “Why, it’s as thin as my embroidery silks.”
“It’s harder to find your balance if the rope is too wide.”
“Truly?”
“Would you like to try it? It would not be easy in those heavy skirts, but you could surely stand.”
She looked toward him, her eyes wide. That impression of youth, of wonderment, still clung about her, and Nicolai was surprised to notice she could not be more than two and twenty. What could have happened to such a girl, so lovely and graceful, so full of a wonder she hid even from herself, to run her to such a hard life, to the shadowy, sinful existence of a spy and assassin?
He suddenly had the overpowering desire to take her in his arms, to hold her close until whatever those hardships were faded away and she was only that young girl again. His cursed protectiveness. It always got him into trouble.
“Come,” he said, holding out his hand. “I can help you.”
But she stepped back from the rope, tucking her hands into her wide sleeves. She laughed cynically, and he could see the veil fall again over her eyes. “Nay, Monsieur Ostrovsky! I am sure you would let me drop at the first opportunity. I am too fond of my neck to see it broken on these paving stones.”
He let his own hand drop, and turned away to fetch his doublet and boots. “How very suspicious you are, mademoiselle.”
“One has to be, to survive.”
Nicolai shrugged into his doublet, fastening the tiny pearl closures. The room had suddenly grown very cold. “What do you do here, Mademoiselle Dumas? Are not all the ladies attending on the queen today?”
“I was, but they have joined the Spanish ladies for a stroll in the garden. And I received a note from the Master of the Revels summoning me here. Lady Penelope Percy says he wants to cast me in one of the pageants.”
Ah, yes, the pageant. Nicolai had forgotten about it for a blessed five minutes. “I should have known you were the French angel.”
